Free The Lingering Outbreak At Hope Cove by Ben Brown

he set about the task of reloading it. While he could not keep up the same pace as his father, he did reload the muskets faster than he ever had before. His hands, like the beat of his heart, were steady. He never fumbled the powder, nor the shot; he simply did what he had to do. Callum was his father’s son, and at that moment, nothing could fluster him.
    Creature after creature fell, yet Jonathan did not relent in his slaughter. When no musket found his hand, he would grab up the bow and arrow, and in this way, his killing went on ceaselessly. There would be no rest bite for the monsters below, at least not while the ammo held.
    Jon loosed the last of his arrows and watched as it tore through the eye of what had once been a young woman. He watched her fall, and he felt neither pity for her, nor shame for his actions. He was beginning to ache, so he took a moment to stretch out a knot forming in his shoulders. He could feel the tension in his muscles easing, and after one more stretch, he placed the now useless bow at his feet.
    He looked to his son and marveled at the speed with which the boy worked. With growing admiration, he watched on as Callum poured powder down the barrel of one of the muskets. He knew this signified the boy had only just begun the reload, which meant he had close to a minute before the next weapon would be ready. Patiently, he waited for his son to pass him a gun.
    It was then Jon realized the killing would now slow markedly, restricted by the speed at which his son could reload. At best, this meant only one kill per minute. A quick look out the window told him they had only cut the creatures’ numbers by a third … half at most. He needed the guns quicker than his son could supply them, so he moved to the head of the stairs and called for Alfred to join them. Soon the old man began reloading the muskets alongside Callum, thus doubling not only the reload speed, but hopefully the kill rate too. Now with two people reloading, he would be able to drop a creature at a rate of roughly one every thirty seconds. He then wondered if Sally could reload a musket. He guessed not, but thought it best to call her upstairs anyway. It was better to keep their tiny group together in one spot.
    Soon all four of them were upstairs, and while Sally could not reload muskets, she proved useful in other ways. Her sharp young eyes proved invaluable for spotting wounded creatures. She would then direct Jonathan’s attention to the wounded ghoul, and he would put them out of their unholy misery. And so the killing went on.
    Though Jonathan had hoped to keep a steady pace up, fatigue started to affect his aim. Instead of achieving a clean kill every shot, he started to miss, or simply clip his targets. Now, it took two to three shots to fell a single creature.
    Jon lifted the musket with his tired arms, and once again leveled it at the head of a ghoul. However, before he had a chance to pull the trigger, a gentle hand found his shoulder.
    “Pa, you’re beat, let me take over for a while.”
    Jonathan lowered his weapon and looked into his son’s concerned face. “Maybe a five minute break would help.” He passed his son the gun and moved away from the window.
    Callum took up his father’s position and eyed the carnage.
    Bodies lay everywhere. Some were unmoving, but others grabbed at the earth and tried to drag themselves towards the mill. He looked down and saw at least twenty creatures’ bashing at the door. With a low sigh, he picked his first target and fired.
    His aim was true, and he reached for another gun. Alfred dutifully placed one in his hand, and then began the task of reloading the spent weapon. As the old man worked, he examined the bag of shot from which he pulled the next round. At the beginning of the day, they had two hundred rounds from his store, and a further sixty of the Wentworth’s. They were now down to maybe seventy or eighty rounds, barely enough to finish their task.
    “Callum,” the